


Hollow (Bamboo, Boxes, Hanzo)

by Vrunka



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blowjobs, Feminization, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Replacement sex, subtle D/s tones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: "Wear this," the note reads. "Meet me in my office."





	Hollow (Bamboo, Boxes, Hanzo)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azaleeshwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaleeshwrites/gifts).



> And the latest commission for lovely, amazing Azaleesh!

The texture of the box is rough beneath his fingers.

Hanzo closes his eyes and drags his nails along it. The bamboo is hollow.

He takes a breath.

He opens the box.

Inside, folded neatly, pristine and pink and white, is exactly what Hanzo expects. The kimono is soft and cool as he smooths his hands over it. Delicate. He lifts it out and the fabric flows like water over his folded knees.

He has not seen this particular one before. He does not remember his mother wearing it.

The note beneath it, written in Sojiro's tight, exacting script reads: "Wear this. Meet me in my office."

Hanzo stands, double checks that the sliding door to his room is fully closed. That Genji will not come barging in on this. The kimono's hem flutters about Hanzo's feet as he walks. It will be just the slightest bit too long for him.

Makes sense, after all, since it was not made for him.

Hanzo begins the task of putting it on.

Hanzo is hollow.

\--

The walk to his father's office is stressful at best. The kimono hinders Hanzo's steps, keeps his stride small and dainty. Prolongs the prickling anticipation until it is like a riot of wasps at the base of Hanzo's spine.

And always there is the fear of getting caught. Of being caught. Of Genji catching him.

Hanzo breathes through his nose.

He specifically pushes Genji from his mind.

Genji, for once, has no place here.

Hanzo can smell the incense his father is burning long before he reaches the office. A thick smell. Sweet and heady.

The back of Hanzo's throat is dry.

He hastens his tiny steps. The silk rustles with his movements.

And then he is there. He is there. Hanzo lays his hand against the screen. A heron in blue under his fingers. A heron soaring over a forest of hollow hollow hollow bamboo.

Hanzo knocks.

And his father answers.

\--

The mirror is dotted with pearls, silver backed. Traditional. Hanzo sits before it as Sojiro moves around him. His father's fingers brushing through his hair.

Hanzo had left it tied up, but Sojiro has freed it. He curls his fingers and, in the reflection, Hanzo can see the way the hair slips over his knuckles. Midnight against ivory. Ink on paper.

Hanzo stares at the reflection and tries to see what Sojiro does when he looks at him this way.

"You should smile," Sojiro murmurs, voice thick and breath hot on Hanzo's temple. "You are lovely when you smile."

So Hanzo does.

The corners of his lips tug upwards. He is lovely.

Sojiro answers the grin; a thumb tracks over Hanzo's chin. "Do you know how much you look like her?"

Hanzo does not. Not really. He doesn't see it beyond the fact that her hair was like his, long and thick and straight. But he was young when she passed. Maybe he just remembers wrong.

His panic at not having the answer must show on his face because Sojiro's hands fall comfortingly to his shoulders. They knead the tension from him, warm the silk against Hanzo's skin.

Sojiro's nose brushing over the shell of Hanzo's ear. Lips dry against Hanzo's pulse. "Your neck," Sojiro says, right hand skimming up to Hanzo's jaw again. "Your face. Your hair." His exhales, a puff of warm air that tickles Hanzo's skin. Prickling. Needling.

Hanzo breathes.

"You are so perfect," Sojiro says. And he is slipping beneath the kimono, his warm fingers parting the silk and sliding against Hanzo's chest. Hanzo's sternum.

Hanzo's beating heart.

Sojiro's lips part. Hot, moist breath. As sticky and cloying as the incense. Hanzo shudders. He is blushing, the skin of his cheeks too tight and too warm. The heat spreads down his throat and across his chest where Sojiro is currently kneading gently at the swell of his pec. A thumb against Hanzo's nipple like it could be an accident. The rough callouses sparking little shivers of arousal down Hanzo's spine.

"Oh my love," Sojiro murmurs. His fingers twist, groping in earnest now, unmistakable for anything else. Hanzo's nipple, trapped between middle and pointer, hardens.

Hanzo's breath comes short.

His fingers find his father's wrist. Hold tight and fast. Like it is an anchor. His head tips back, knocks against Sojiro's shoulder. His hair sticks to Sojiro's lips.

In the mirror, Hanzo can see that his father is frowning. Not as severe and harsh as his usual frown, but the expression strikes a nerve in Hanzo's belly.

Disappointment. Annoyance.

His father's affections are all Hanzo has ever wanted.

And maybe this hadn't been the way he envisioned it, but it's better than nothing. So, so much better.

Hanzo's fingers twitch, slide from Sojiro's wrist. He meets his father's gaze in the reflection.

He smiles.

He looks lovely when he smiles.

Slowly, Sojiro's ministrations at his chest begin again. Slowly, Sojiro matches the smile.

His free hand turns Hanzo's head, cradling the back, strong fingers pressing in just at the top of the spine. He guides their lips together, gently, so gently.

Hanzo does not shy away. He feels torn. Part of him wants to pull back; a small part, easily outweighed by his feelings of anxiety at disappointing his father again. Part of him wants to push forward, to open his lips and tangle his tongue with Sojiro's; to actively participate because he wants this. Wants this. Wants to feel how much his father wants him.

But he doesn't know if it would be appreciated either. If demure and innocent is what Sojiro would rather.

So Hanzo does nothing as Sojiro locks their lips.

He is frozen. Hollow. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. Fluttering. Clawing. Against his mouth, Sojiro frowns again.

"You are doing wonderfully," he says, his beard--even trimmed and neat as it is--scrapes at Hanzo's skin. Leaves goosebumps in its wake. "Let me taste you, Han."

Han. So casual a nickname. Short for Hanzo. Short for Hanabi. It hurts less if Hanzo doesn't examine it too closely.

Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut, presses his body into Sojiro's hands. He opens his mouth, melts at the feeling of Sojiro's tongue sliding across his lips.

His cock is tenting the front of his briefs, lewd and silk-covered. A wet spot ruining the beautiful, rich fabric of the kimono. Distantly, he is ashamed of how aroused he is, dripping at just the controlling, controlled kisses. 

The kissing doesn't last all that long anyway.

Sojiro's hands guide Hanzo up; pull him to standing and against Sojiro's solid frame. One at the small of Hanzo's back keeps him tucked to his father's side. The other is still locked at Hanzo's neck, shifting in the dark hair.

"Do you want to please me, my love," Sojiro asks. His lips are red, there is spittle in his beard. Hanzo's own face feels swollen, scratchy from the rub of that foreign hair.

Hanzo nods. It isn't enough. He swallows, licks his lips. "Yes," he says, and it doesn't come out shaking or scared. "Anything."

His father's hands stroke the fabric of the kimono. They smooth it flat over Hanzo's chest where it had been pulled askew. Hanzo watches where those hands trek. They are so large against him even though he is nineteen and well past growing.

Pointedly, his father does not touch the swell of his cock.

Pointedly, his father glides his fingers past it, without so much as a glancing, teasing blow.

"Get on your knees," Sojiro instructs. Softly. Oh so softly. "Get on your knees and put your hands behind your back."

Hanzo blinks. Blinks again. He can feel his breathing, has to think about the in and the out of it. Labored. His heart is hammering in his chest.

He gets to his knees. There is nothing graceful about it. He has to keep his legs spread slightly to avoid dipping forward when he locks his hands around his own wrists.

Sojiro smiles down at him.

Hanzo feels flooded with relief, if only momentarily. His father's hands are back on his face, one stroking the hair, pushing it out of the center part it naturally has fallen into; sweeping it to the side, out of the way.

Out of the way.

So Sojiro can step closer, can crowd in. Hanzo bites his lip, digs his fingers into his skin to keep from pawing at Sojiro's knees. The tendons in his wrist like little strips of steel in his arms.

One handed, Sojiro unzips his fly. One handed, he guides his cock out of the opening and brushes it against Hanzo's cheek. The red, swollen head leaving a trail of molten precome where it tracks.

Hanzo takes a shuddering breath.

Sojiro sighs. "That's good," he praises, "very good. I knew you would look so good like this."

The compliments, murmured and quiet though they are, still manage to make pride swell in Hanzo's throat. In his chest. Coiling and curling in the space that usually feels so void. So hollow. Hanzo leans into his father's gentle touch, opens his mouth without being asked when the wet, uncut cock pushes against his lips.

He has never done this before; has never particularly had an interest in this before, and the worry that he will mess up, that he will ruin it circles madly in the back of his mind. The thought flutters just under where his father sinks his fingers, tangling and knotting the long, dark strands.

Hanzo's fingers twitch against his own skin.

His father's cock tastes salty. Thick. Clogging Hanzo's nose and throat as Sojiro moves his hips in short, quick thrusts. The romance of the moment shattered by brutal efficiency. His father's hip bone colliding with his nose, pubic hair scratching against his cheek.

"Teeth," Sojiro hisses, once, tugging sharply at Hanzo's hair. The cock between his lips, drags back and Hanzo adjusts, cradles the underside with his tongue when it shoves back in. He is more mindful of his teeth.

He squeezes his eyes shut, receives another hair pull for that. Sharp reprimand.

"I love you," Sojiro says. "Look at me, Han."

I love you.

So simple.

Hanzo claws at his wrists. The urge to reach around and grab hold--to wrest back some control--is strong, undeniable. But Sojiro is talking him through it, praising him, calling him Han, Han, Han oh Han. And Sojiro's cock is leaking against his tongue and over his soft pallet, because Hanzo is doing it right, he is doing it right and he is good and he is beautiful.

And his father loves him. Sojiro loves him.

"Just like your mother," Sojiro groans. Hips snapping forward one last time, cock swelling final in Hanzo's throat.

Hanzo isn't prepared, not for the words, not for the orgasm. Both crash over and through him. He recoils, his hands fly from behind him to over his mouth, coughing, gagging.

He had been doing so well.

He can feel himself blushing as the last rattling, thick cough leaves him; he tips his head forward. He doesn't want to look up at Sojiro and see the disappointment there.

He stares at the pink of the kimono, the contrast of his skin where it has parted over his thigh.

His fingers shake.

Slowly, he slips them back behind his back. An apology. Or least he hopes it reads as such.

His father sighs above him but Hanzo does not look up. Not until Sojiro's hands find their way to his chin, tug until Hanzo has no choice but to meet his father's gaze.

"Look at me, Han," his father says when Hanzo's eyes still dart away. "You've done so well, tried so hard." He takes a breath. Hanzo waits for his punishment, for the but that will inevitably follow.

But it never comes.

"You may touch yourself," Sojiro says. "This one time, since you have done so well for me."

It takes a moment for the words to process. The praise to sink. Hanzo blinks. He parts the kimono, pushes the silk until it is askew and wrinkling. His own erection has flagged somewhat, but it doesn't take much. Groping at it, pressing a thumb hard against his balls.

Hanzo jerks off with the same efficiency with which Sojiro had fucked his face. Quick strokes. Up and down the shaft, his other hand digging bruises into his leg.

Genji does not have this.

This, this is his alone.

Sojiro is watching him, looking distant, but watching him. Arms crossed, cock still hanging limp from his father's trousers.

Genji does not, cannot have this.

It's that thought that gets Hanzo there, rolls him over into a weak orgasm that spills over his fist and onto the expensive silk. Hanzo shudders in the aftershocks. His hair sticks sweaty at his temple, under his ear.

He looks up at his father.

He smiles.

Sojiro, diligent, smiles back.

\--

The bamboo of the box is as hollow as always. Hanzo's fingers slide against the midnight blue of the silk.

He locks his door.

He is no longer hollow.

He is no longer.

Hollow.


End file.
